The computer began to think. It was connected to a group of mainframes and networked through an advanced system of processing that one of the NRI’s former member companies had developed. Working together, the mainframes had the power of a supercomputer. But by entering “X,” Moore had created a massive need for calculating power. And as he stared at the nonresponsive screen, Moore wondered if he’d crashed the system.
After several minutes, Moore sighed. He was about to give up when the screen flashed. A series of numbers came up relating to field strength, where the pole was, and where it should be. Moore studied the numbers. They matched exactly.
If the computer was right, they were dealing with not one earthbound magnetic field but three.
CHAPTER 57
Professor McCarter found himself struggling once again. Beneath the exposed bulbs in the church’s wine cellar, he found he could not focus.
He sat back and looked at the notes he’d written so far, from glyphs he’d already translated. These were the words of the Fallen Jaguar, the last of the Brotherhood. I write them in the language that is no more.
He guessed that this was the author of the scroll, and that the language he referred to was the hieroglyphics of the Maya.
McCarter glanced at his next line of notes. He could see his own handwriting deteriorating. He noticed his hand shaking visibly now, but it must have been doing so even then.
In their wisdom the gods gave the four stones to the first people, the Wooden People. After the great storm, the falling of the Black Rain, only the Brotherhood remained to carry the secret.
McCarter was certain that this referred to the Mayan creation story, in which the gods of the Maya tried to bring forth the human work. After several failed tries they used wood as the catalyst in the effort and succeeded, creating beings that looked somewhat like humans but were more like stick people, with deformed bodies and dry cracking faces.
Some scholars said these people were actually monkeys who ended up living in the trees, but McCarter had always rejected that notion, as the Wooden People were never described to have fur, or tails, or any type of grace or athleticism. Instead they were said to be ungainly and weak. Much more like the body they had found in the cave below the Amazon temple. The body of a human from the future.
And if he was right, after the Wooden People were killed in the storm and the flood, the regular people, whom they seemed to have exercised control over, left, fleeing the Amazon and heading north. Most of these people, and indeed the legend itself, gloried in the destruction of the Wooden People. But the Brotherhood, perhaps a group of priests or acolytes, knew better. They had taken the stones that were accessible and brought them on a journey, several journeys to be exact, and placed them as they’d been told.
The Sacrifice of the Heart remains at Zuyua.
This was the Brazil stone, which he and Danielle had found two years earlier.
The Sacrifice of the Mind has followed the sun, over the great sea.
McCarter guessed this was the Russian stone. The one they had yet to look for.
To the Temple of the Initiation was taken the Sacrifice of the Soul, and the last went to the mountains. Here I have placed it: The master stone, The Sacrifice of the Body lies beneath the Mirror, in the Temple of the Jaguar.
The Brotherhood, the regular humans from the current time period, stretched all the way back to the original shrine in Brazil. It made sense. The travelers from earth’s future appeared weak and deformed; they needed help, assistance. They could not be expected to do the task alone. They must have recruited certain members in secret, and thus the Brotherhood was formed.
McCarter gazed at his notes, pleased that the past made sense now, but he realized that nothing he’d found would tell him what they really needed to know: what they should do now.
Feeling dizzy, he went back to translating.
He leaned over the hieroglyphic book and a drop of sweat fell from his face and hit the parchment. He dabbed the parchment with a towel, wiped his face, and studied the next group of symbols.
One for the earth, the land. One that represented healing, and another that he’d come to realize indicated the stones.
Would the stones heal the earth? And from what?
He leaned forward again, studying a glyph that represented men or mankind or the human kind. Another glyph represented nature, the earth in a sense, and a third glyph represented darkness. He had seen glyphs before that signified that nature would destroy man, as when a volcano erupted or an earthquake flattened a village, but here the order was reversed. Could it mean what he thought it meant? So much of the prophecy, especially as it was treated today, seemed to indicate nature destroying man, but this was different: The parchment in front of him suggested that man destroys nature. Was the catastrophe not natural in origin but in fact man-made? Or was it his liberal prejudices coming out? He remembered a debate with a conservative friend who told him he put trees ahead of people. He could not be sure, but the words were there.
His eyes blurred suddenly, watering and burning. His body ached. He wrote his notes and looked to the next set of glyphs. They seemed familiar to him, in fact he was certain he knew them, but he could not divine a meaning. It was an odd sensation, like not being able to recall the name of someone you knew well. He traced the outline of the first one with his finger, hoping it would jog his memory, but nothing came to him. He drew it with his shaky hand but still his mind was blank.
A jolt of anger and frustration hit him. It was almost impossible to do what he was trying to do without a database, or at least his old notebooks or an anthology of known glyphs. But he had nothing to work with, nothing but his failing memory.
He sat back again. Despite the warmth of the wine cellar he now had the chills. He was running a fever and as often happened to the patient whose temperature rises rapidly, he’d begun to feel as if he were freezing.
He held the towel to his face. He felt as if he might throw up.
He put a hand to his leg and touched the outlines of his wound. It was hot, burning with infection once again, swollen and painful to the touch.
What had he done?
In a vain, desperate effort to hear his wife’s voice again, he’d stopped taking the medications Danielle had been giving him. The sickness had brought his wife to him once, or so he’d thought: the sickness and the stone, the conduit through time. But as he’d become well, her face had vanished; her voice no longer touched his mind. It was like waking from a dream and wishing only to go back to sleep and find it somehow. And McCarter could not bring himself to let that happen.
In response he’d shunned the antibiotics in hopes of seeing her again. But the only result was a growing fever and a cloudy mind just when they all needed it to be sharp.
CHAPTER 58
At the celebration, Father Domingo made a great fuss over Hawker and Danielle. The women of the town found it hard to believe Danielle could be happy in her thirties without having a husband. They insisted she dance with a few of the men, and then, realizing she had come with Hawker, they made it a point to get them dancing and drinking as much as possible.
By midnight the celebration had begun to wind down and Hawker and Danielle found themselves alone in an alleyway outside the guesthouse.
They leaned against the building and looked at each other.
Hawker found himself both captivated by her and concerned. The events of recent days flashed through his head and, strangely, Arnold Moore’s arrival in Africa settled in his mind.